The Shattered Chalice
by Nuriko Kamaiji
Summary: [on HIATUS]The caged bird remains silent, never daring to dream of freedom for it is only another inexcusable existence. Until the Seed was sown in the bird's womb, only then did the tides begin to change, as what was planned was not what became
1. Stainglass windows

_**The Shattered Chalice**_

By: Nuriko Kamaiji

**Disclaimer: The idea is entirely mine (and my sister's I guess) though the one individual mentioned in here is copyright Yasuhiro Nightow and whoever else holds rights on 'Trigun'**

**Author's Note: This come from a "what if" interest in how far Knives would go to ensure the survival of his own kind, and, more so for me personally, how he'd treat the woman that he chose for that duty.**

My life is hell. Or at least as much as hell as the way I was always taught to believe it. I hardly ever see the light of day, except through the stain-glass windows. A multitude of fragmented colored light is my only reminder of the sunlight, as it bleeds and cracks through the distorted windows. Years back, when I was first brought here, I spent long hours staring intently at the disfigured glass trying to discern a pattern, a shape, even a rhythm to its madness. But now I know they were only crafted by a madman. Everything here seems as though it has been smudged by _his _touch. Though in truth, _he _likely had nothing to do with whatever pathetic soul built this mausoleum. The walls all around are dark, stark of any other colors. If not for the pigments of glass filtered light it would as empty as a starless night.

In all other conveniences, I could hardly want. The room was larger than any I had ever seen, with rounded walls and an arched ceiling that reaches far overhead. Sometimes on a clear night I can see stars shimmering from the darkest reaches above me. Food is always prepared, set through the iron door by a slot in the heavy mechanics. I have no fathoming of how it works, but the one who keeps me here is able to open and close it at will. The first time he came to see me, after he had departed I tried in vain to open it myself. I clawed, scraped, and torn madly at it but the iron only made my fingers bleed. Two days after he was sure to return to mend my bleeding fingers. He couldn't bear if anything happened to me. That is perhaps one of my only comforts.

At one end of the room is a long shelf, filled with many strange objects, mostly books. I still can't read many of them, as they are written in a tongue I never learned. The pages are filled with archaic symbols, scribbled out like dried up worms in black ink, or serpentine swirls scratched in limpid gold. I entertain myself through the years I've been here by looking through them again and again. Besides the books, there are bits and pieces of hard metal, some shiny, others rough and dim. Some are pale white, with a patterned feel, if that's possible. I asked my keeper once about them. He told me in an unusually calm manner, almost indifferently, that they were seashells. What that means I still have not learned. Others are cold, some warm, some are in jars, and others in carts with locks I have not yet been able to break. And then there was you, too. I found you, this barren little book, among the shelf as well. It is one of the few comforts I suppose I can afford. There are tables and chairs as well, dusty but still soft. Often I will sleep in one of the handful of chairs huddled around the self, just so I won't have to sleep alone in the spot that serves as the rightful bed I was given.

You may think me foolish for saying thus, but you do not understand. At the other end is another, smaller room, jaggedly cropped off the bigger one. Inside it is what would likely have served as my bedroom. There is even less light in there, as there are no windows. The bed is large, as everything seems to be, does it not, and dark, like dried blood. Despite appearances, the sheets are surprisingly cool and soft at the same time. Perhaps you, my dear imagined listener, are wondering how it is I know those things when I say I often sleep in the other room. As I've said it is the fear of being alone in there that keeps me trapped out from it. Or perhaps it is the fear of being alone in there and _remembering. _

I have not told you about _him _yet, have I? He was the one who brought me here, or I have always assumed since I have never seen any others. What he is I do not know, but I can safely say he is not human. He calls himself Knives, though why he bothered to inform me I don't know. He keeps me caged in here, like a trapped bird. A bird to entertain himself with, though, in all actuality I'm sure that is being much too over zealous of me. But somehow… Perhaps I am going mad as well, along with him. When he comes to see me, he speaks to me of how he will purge out all the scum of humanity, wipe them all out, to leave a place only for him and this other he speaks of. I have never heard the name of this other and I've learned not to enquiry.

The first night when he came to see him, when I had first been brought here, I asked him so many questions. I don't recall that he answered any of them. I don't remember much except I was frightened, alone and cold in this dark, empty place. I had memories of a happy family, though we were certainly poor than it was all ripped away, so easily I sometimes wonder if it was really only a dream.

Despite what you might think he was never cruel to me. Maybe he was even gentle in his own way. He seems to feel that I am a possession of his. That's what I see in his eyes sometimes. I may still only be the scum of faceless race but I am _his _property so I have a level of valued importance in his eyes.

But I am a prisoner all the same.


	2. Broken sunlight

**Disclaimer: Same as before, the character mentioned in here belongs to the creator of 'Trigun' et. al. I happily don't own him. As far as it goes, Knives is the only 'Trigun' character plus my own character who as yet still remains nameless. **

**A/N: I was never planning on adding to this but this bit just came to me one night. We'll see what happens next. I've re-posted this after attempting to edit it (that's never been a strong suit of mine…ah well.) I hope it reads a little bit better than before. **

Sometimes it is nice to be alone. To be able to think. At least I feel that way. Though I wonder why that is, since I have so much time to myself now? But I enjoy it all the same, my dear imagined listener. The precious time I have to my own thoughts; the time I have to even have time to watch a trail of sunlight leak in, lighting a path for the routed ages of dust. Yes, now there is true sunlight, pouring through like spilled yellow wine from an uncorked bottle, and sincere night, falling full and dark from the large crack.

It stretches nearly a hand's width across the twisted images in the colored glass, high overhead in the upper reaches of the windows. The jagged edges contort the light, whether sun or moon, turning even their usual occurrence with a ray of unnaturalness. But even in its grotesqueness I find I am comforted somehow, if merely by the presence of something I had already begun to forget.

Perhaps I have been too long in the company of a madman.

But no…I shouldn't say such things…

The window is one of the closest to the inner bed chamber, standing as a steadfast solider overlooking the right-side entrance into a king's tomb, and as such, the light weaves its way to the corner of the huddled chairs where I make my abode.

It is nice to feel warmth upon my face, real warmth, from an outside source. Somehow, or maybe not so, I cannot seem to find that warmth in the one who keeps me caged here. He does not have any of the heat I seem to recall others had; others whom I use to know, whom I use to live and love with. But that seems so very long ago. Am I rambling? Perhaps I am.

I would smile if I could. A soft beam of yellow light, a pale golden shaft, has pierced this page as I sit here writing this, illuminating my words even as I struggle to find them. An unspoken trial, this effort to express these pent up feelings I have carried within in me for so long. How long has it been, indeed? A year? More than that? I hardly wonder anymore.

Though I wonder at the price I may have paid to receive this tiny bit of happiness. I am not sure if it is happiness, since I have been told that I am vermin and only useful to Knives for now, and therefore I am not sure if one such as myself would feel happiness. But if it is a small feeling, tiny but somehow golden and silver and shining all at once then perhaps I am. I have not seen _him, _Knives, since the night the crack broke in the upper window.

He had come as he does, without warning and without any sense that I have found, nights ago. I've lost count since then. Time does not really seem so important when you have no where else to go.

When he comes to my trapped prison there are no words spoken; simply he is there and I must come to him, as only a dog must when its master beckons.

But even a beast such as that is loved by its master, isn't it? Or is humanity that cruel that they would disrespect and beat their own animals? I have read a bit on them, on dogs, I mean. They are loyal animals, kind and playful. I wonder what it would be like to meet one. There was a picture of a dog in one of the books, a smudged drawing with thick black lines many of which had been messily smeared. But I could discern an elongated head with a narrow snout and floppy ears, hanging crookedly at the side. With large, round eyes, or rather round smears, it gave the drawing a strange sentiment of innocence, like a wide-eyed child taking in every occurrence as the water and wine of its life.

I think…that I regret. What, I wish I knew.

That night that he came would have been the same as all the others, except I had been in an uncommon pain. An ache had crept into my lower back and my abdomen felt as though it had been gnawing me alive, like hot pinpoints pricking on the inside. I had felt more irritable than usual, and I had finally found a position that was comfortable for me. All though the day I had been struggling to find way to sit that felt right. Every way I moved I felt simply more tender and stiffly bloated. I simply refused to move.

He waited of course, which surprised me. I had not expected him to. The moments drifted by, the silence between us growing heavier, thickening as a physical haze. From the corner of my eyes I saw his right hand twitch. Still his voice remained dormant.

I remember the way his eyes, ice-cold like winter blue, bored into the side of my face freezing me to the spot unable to move even if I had wished too. He has always been so cold, so very cold…even when he has had me entwined in his arms.

Waiting slowly began to melt away to impatience and frustration and a little bit of confusion. I saw it in his eyes though they remained unchanged. It's a peculiar thing, to be able to see deeply into such wintry eyes and somehow see so clearly that he is impatient and does not want to be so. But it is only a flicker of reflection off the cool mirrors of white-blue with which he uses to see me with. Through my time in his company I like to believe that I have come to see parts of him that no one else has ever seen. Or perhaps I am merely going mad? But somehow, surely, in the deep dark of night, covered in blood-red sheets, surely I must see something in that red womb as he presses himself into me, as cold as always.

After a pause in the silence though neither of us has said a word, the tension bubbled then broke giving way to an inky blackness. I felt it seeping into my bones. Afraid, I huddled deeper into the cushions, despite my earlier stanch protest against moving.

The sound of his footsteps echoed loudly in the dome of my room, followed by a thin _click_. Within mere seconds he was standing, hovering, beside me. He said nothing only gazed down at me coldly. I had a sudden stab of panic then, fearing for an instant that I had clearly overstepped my boundary as useful and Knives would dispose of me, as easily as throwing away worthless garbage though with much more enthusiasm.

I pulled myself in as tight as I could, almost in a ball, burying my face in my knees. The pain did not subside but fear overtook my bodily aches.

'You are in pain?' I thought his voice sounded amused. At the tone I peeked out at him through my fingers. He was still gazing down at me unflinching.

Unsure, I nodded dumbly up at him. He had nothing to say to that, and he did not move for the longest time. Gaining a well-source of hidden strength I somehow found the courage to speak. I do not now remember exactly what I said, but I believe it went something like this: 'I am in pain, yes. It's not bad really, I simply feel bloated and my stomach feels as though it is being twisted inside out.' I remember I winched after my words, the ache returning.

Knives remained silent. Then in a strange gesture he reached out an index finger to my forehead. Never had he touched me there, never in all the time I had known him. In spite of my surprise I felt relaxed. By body still ached, especially near my abdomen, but my spirit felt calm. I had never felt such peace in my life. The only words I have to express it to you, is to image a giant wave rushing up toward you unexpected and falling like golden-white satin. Soft, smooth, sincere. It filled up and washed over me, a giant force that was so much larger than me. A wave of light.

His next words broke through my calm. I will always remember them until the day I die.

'You are with child.'

I gawked up at him, his finger now removed. He seemed content and began to turn away then his ice eyes trailed down to the book in my spineless hands. In a deft movement faster than my eyes could see, he grabbed the dry, bone colored object from me. His mouth spread in a perverse smile. 'This will do.' Then without a word he hurdled it across the space of my room, shattering the glass high above. From it I saw the dim light of countless white stars. I stared up stunned. I must have asked why, for he told me, in a quite simple manner, 'You will need light for the child to grow on this wasteland.'

And then he left. I have not seen him since, though I did not expect to.

It seems I finally know the purpose of my usefulness.


	3. Absent nostalgia

**Disclaimer: Diddo as before. Knives belongs to the mind of Yasuhiro Nightow.**

**A/N: I know this isn't much of a "chapter" but think of it as an interlude chapter. Who am I talking to? I was feeling very depressed today and this is what came out of it. Also, I'm not sure, but can someone tell me if I'm repeating myself about her past, the fragments mentioned? I can't help feeling like I am.**

I don't know how I feel, except that it is painful. Not painful the way you might suppose. Nothing concrete, nothing that I can feel in my bones or blood. There are no aches, not really. Except the pain is real all the same. It beats down on me, waves of dark shadows swallowing me uncaringly in its great, gaping mouth. It's as if a stale, bitter laughter crackles at me, mocking my inability to do good. To do anything at all. To merely stay here and sit. It's almost as if there are voices in the air. Perhaps that is a good thing, but I do not think so.

For awhile, the light from outside nearly made me human again, made me feel as if I was…flying free. I wasn't caged in some stage. I wasn't playing some deranged part out for that _man. _I use to dream of being free. As if this room where I live was merely a cage with which he kept me, his favored bird. A mechanical bird perhaps, doing the deeds and actions he wished when the key was turned.

I was nothing except a puppet to him. Nothing except a player.

So I would merely dream instead.

There was no light in my dreams, but the night was solitude enough. It was quiet, peaceful, comforting and cool. A gentle, silent group of tall, leaning shadows blocking out all light, keeping me safe. It was always so calm, and it made me feel so safe.

But in the end, they were still just dreams.

In them, sometimes I would miraculously be free, flying, running, jumping away, clear and unstained, not troubled or chained. But then…I came to realize that it was just an illusion.

I am trapped here. I cannot escape. I have been here for more years of my life than I can remember clearly. All I do remember is a warm house with dusty floors and open windows. Through the windows there were shots of golden sunlight, hot and steamy. The steam would rise in the air making the dusty expanse behind it warp and twist as if looking through murky water. I don't remember it being particularly cheery but it wasn't unhappy either. There were always others around me, laughing and holding me, lifting me up into the air. I can't remember their faces anymore; it seems so faraway now. What became of it I don't know, or at least I don't remember. Most likely it doesn't matter anymore.

You might think that since I deem myself unable to fly, that this pain buried deep inside my chest is too great, or too worthless to bother to lift off, that I must be unhappy. But honestly I'm not sure.

I've tried to do some thinking since…Knives told me what he did. These words as I write them do not make much more sense then they did to me. But I've been thinking, trying to sort things out, in my failed fashion.

For a long time, I thought it was wrong for me to be here, to be trapped in here. Especially to be trapped by someone so perverse, someone so clearly mad. His detestable scorn for my own race raked like talons at me, ripping my small sense of self-worth away to bleeding rags. I struggled to keep hold of the worth I felt, but it was always so shallow, so insignificant.

And I came to truly believe I was insignificant, that I, despite what I felt, was perhaps the scum he always told me the others of my kind, the others of the human race, were. Yes, despite the pain, this ruthless, numbing, bruising, cold pain I could not help but think he was right.

The light of sun and star and the occasional moon lifted my spirits up, but of course the pain didn't go away. It was still there with every waking moment, every other useless day I lead.

I think, though who am I to suggest such things, that it is in the nature of mankind to want to achieve something each day, to want to do good for the world, for others, or perhaps just for themselves. They simply wish to live each day the way they wish. They just want to be loved, to be understood, to be free.

I can't say I know that for certain, but from the fragments I've read in this abandoned library, it seems that humankind have been struggling for years with indescribable pains and confusion. They have always been searching for some sort of meaning. I've never been clear on what they were searching for, objects or names that have no meaning to me. But I have been clear, or it has become clearer the more I read and think, on what it means. Maybe the sunlight and starlight reminded me.

Humankind are such fragile creatures. They desire truth and an order to their lives. Without meaning to they craft towers and cities in their minds, the legends to these truths. To them their truths became their reality. And they must depend upon it. It makes me sad to think of it, but humans are not wrong. There is a kind of beauty to their truths, though he would never see it.

Because just as surely, as I've watched each solitary star in the crack overhead in the broken dome, so each human life tries to shine with its own little bit of truth before it merely disappears into the darkness.

Aah, but still the pain is so strong. It seems so endless as if I'm being suffocated from within and my heart broken in two. Tearing, ripping, pulling apart, breaking upon my soul like the surfs of dagger sharp waves. I'm drowning in darkness. Why can't someone save me?

But no, no. That's just wishful thinking. I am here. This is where I am. My name is Ananaza.

What my name means I don't know (I seem to be saying that a lot don't you think?) but it's all the name I have. It's the word he speaks to me, softly into my ear as he lays inside me in the darkness.

A thought – no…it couldn't be. Such a strange thought…

Those memories I have of his time with me seemed in this strange instant, this odd wrenching of a bleeding heart exposed, to be somehow golden in a soft, gentle way.

I have not seen him for the longest time. Maybe he will never return. But no, he must. He must come someday for his child.

My child.

His child.

Our…child?

No I shouldn't think such things, nor write them. I should not…be worthy to think such things. But despite that, there's a feeling growing in me, a...feeling I can't deny. And when I do the pain doesn't seem to hurt as much.

I miss him.

As clear and plain as daylight, I simply miss him. I miss Knives.

He is mad and cruel and cold, and yet, I still miss him.

I think perhaps he has wormed his way into my life deeper than I would have liked. Maybe I am just desperate to shine, the tiny star inside of me is so desperate to shine that it will reach out for anything not to have this pain. I do not know. I do not think I will ever…know.

The pain is not so bad now. I know that no matter what role I must play, whether it is mine by choice, or mine by force, that the pain I feel is not so bad as when I think of him.

I must be mad, but I feel saner than I have felt for a long while. Yes, I miss him. And I would gladly…


	4. Midnight wolf

**Disclaimer: I suppose this is getting old. I don't own 'Trigun', it belongs to the mind of Yasuhiro Nightow. Any characters herein mentioned belong to him. Also I don't own the title, as it is from an Anne Bishop book. (I haven't the foggish who Anne Bishop is but thank you to the reviewer who mentioned it)**

**A/N: Yay! I guess it's off hiatus! This was the first bit I ever wrote that I had fun writing. Weird. I always had it in my mind that this would happen. Here's how I see it: if _he _was allowed to watch Vash, he must be good at keeping secrets, right? **

I'm sorry to have bored you with that last entry, but you are the only listener I have. Or had.

Last time, when it seemed I finally reached a balance of closure, concerning…_him…_my flow of thoughts was interrupted by a severe knock. Or rather it was loud. The nosy of it was loud in my ears, one of the first sounds I had heard in a long, long time.

Time in seems is very much out of my reach. It flows in disjoined streams, wrapping around me slowly or else rushing pass me in a blinding maze, but draining lazily away all the same regardless. At the very least the sound startled me, for the slim river of light that leaked through the broken glass overhead was a burnished yellow, the light of the day sun. And I know, from the life I live here, that Knives never comes in the day. It is only in the night, when it is too dark to see, to really see properly anyway, that he comes.

Since my thoughts had already been running circles around _him _I had a momentary shudder of paradoxical feelings in myself. Common sense told me it was not him as I have already said why. But another part of me felt quite expectantly that it must be _him, _after all perhaps there was some need that would drive him here, some archaic reason he had to come. For the child of course.

Now as I sit here writing this, I find there is a seed of guilt at the bit of happiness that thought, the latter one, gave me. It was not a feeling I had ever thought to feel, to be happy at Knives presence. I had already grown to miss him; perhaps I have merely been too lonely.

It took me a moment to realize it was not _his _knock simply because he does not. Knives has never really knocked. Over the time, I have grown use to knowing when he is approaching so it is as near to a knock as I ever heard. This new bit of thought startled me and weakened me. Another knock followed the brief silence in-between, this one a shallow sort of thud, as if the hand that plodded the metal was unsure of its status.

Insecurity, and a little fear bubbling in my veins, I rose slowly to my feet, banging my hip on the edge of the small table I sit near as I write. The sound echoed thunderously in my ears but the one outside did not seem to hear it.

I made my way to the door. I had not looked at it in a long time. It was as smooth as I remembered, the metal shining gaily with stripes of white-silver light from the sun and warm to the touch. Laying my fingers against the metal's warm surface, my mind pondered how to open it even as a smaller part of my mind scolded me for my stupidly. Had not I tried already to do just that, and what did I earn from that except bloodied hands?

As I have told you earlier, Knives returned two nights later to mend my hands, to make sure they were not too damaged. Of all the times I have ever seen him, it was the gentlest he ever was to me. Oh, he is always gentle, but it is the gentleness of someone who detests what they are touching. At least I believe so. It is hard to remember any other way to be held.

That night I remember how open he was with me. I believe I had been newly brought to this cage, and I can only fathom that I amused him in my fear and despair. Only once in that second night did I seem to get him angry.

By then I had ceased my questioning, not from lack of wanting but by merely coming to realize that he would not answer my questions. Or perhaps he did answer them, in his own way. He ignored my pleads for answers, for something, whatever it was I wanted to know. I find I cannot remember it as well as I could.

He grew angry at me for asking him a question, for something in his words I did not understand. By then he had had what he came for, and he was laying beside me, pulling at my hair as he spoke to me. It was not a hard pull, or at least not as hard as he could have made it. Always when he spoke it was in softest tones, which only made the horrid nonsense he would whisper in my ears even worse. I do not precisely remember what he had been speaking of, only that he seemed to be referring to something, or someone and I had, in my earlier innocence, asked of whom he spoke.

He grew coldly silent and I could nearly feel his body, already hard, growing stiff in a slow burning rage. At least that's what I had expected. Instead of yelling he had grasped my throat, tightening his fingers over my throat in a careless manner, speaking in a distracted tone but staring me straight into the eyes. I would have looked away if I could have but his hold was too secure. "It is not of your concern. You will not last long enough to know," was all he said.

It was not spoken in anger, in the way the anger I still remembered was spoken. His tone still held the gentle rumbling it had been before, only it had grown chiller. I had choked out my understanding, and he had laughed, though it wasn't really one. And then he had pulled me down beside him again.

I wonder, perhaps, valued listener, if you believe he had what he wanted of me without my consent. Now that I think of it, it seems plausible that he would have taken me, even as I screamed in protest. He is surely strong enough. But he did not. He laid close to me the first night, as if getting me use to his presence, touching me occasionally but never really doing anything to me. I had struggled to stay awake and alert for fear of what this strange man would do. I have hence learned he is more than a man, and hardly a stranger anymore. But my body had a stronger will than me, and I fell uneasily asleep. When I awoke I found he had not seemed to have moved but in my slumber I must have lain against him, my head tucked between his shoulder blade and chin.

It was with a strange feeling that I awoke, and as I write this I feel a chill up my spin, to find he had not touched me, or at least had not taken advantage of my body when I had been asleep. Even now I do not fully understand why he did not. I had felt unsettled especially since it was still dark. I asked if it was still night. He told me it was early morning. He didn't look at me as he spoke now. I remember as I nodded that my forehead rubbed the skin on his chin. The skin had been warmer than I had expected, and I gave a squeak of surprise. That had brought his attention back to me.

But all that is many miles away in the past. What concerns you most is the knocking that had so disrupted me last time I wrote.

As I stood peering at the door, there came from behind a rigid hissing sound, so advent that I turned to look behind me. In my moment of turning there was a slim sizzle then a gentle clank, followed by an uneasy set of footsteps.

_The door had been opened, and I had missed it_, was the first thought I had, behind which came running, _there is a stranger in here…a new one, _just as rapidly as the first.

That Knives would allow a _stranger _into my cage kept my mind churning for a moment before I was able to fully draw my attention to the man before me.

He was clearly a man, though he was nothing like Knives. He would not look me directly in the eye, his own straying to the side, mere slits looking out in anger or disdain. His clothes were much simpler than anything Knives ever wore, and I found myself wondering oddly at that. I wondered if all other men wore such simple clothes. They were dark, completely black as far as I could tell, with cuffs and undershirt of white, which stood out in clear contrast to the rest. His hands were clasped stiffly at his side, fingers rolled into fists. There was a scent to him, hazy as something heavy with a thick bitter aroma. It was a mildly pleasant scent though it made my nose itch.

As I scratched my nose, he looked up at my movement, and I saw that his eyes were dark, dark blue. A darker blue than Knives, they were nearly black like the sea at night and veiled as securely as a raincloud.

His dark hair, black even in the streams of sunlight, was cut raggedly around his eyes as mine met his.

He seemed taken aback by this and turned as if to go.

My moment of unease and startlement melted away swiftly to be replaced by a hungry kind of fear. This man was the only person I had ever seen for nearly as long as I could remember. I lunged at this stranger, completely missing his arm but my fingers found the back of his shirt, and I clung to it, scolding myself at my desperate, stupid, silly actions. But the reason of my mind didn't make it to the rest of me. I gripped tighter at the fabric, and found I could smell the aroma better up close.

"You can't leave me." Even as I spoke it, I knew it was foolish. "I have been alone for so long with only…with only… I don't want to be alone. I haven't seen anyone in so long." I went on much longer than that, repeating myself, stuttering mindlessly. I believe some spring may have sprung when I saw this stranger, not because he was anyone special but because he was merely no one at all. He was not Knives and he was not me. He was _someone else. _It was as if all the loneliness and despair and pain I had felt, that had become a part of my everyday life, had come to a pinpoint. I felt that if this strange man left, left me when all my senses had come back, had gone back, back to a time when there been others though I could not anymore remember their faces, that I would surely go mad when the pinpoint collapsed on my mind. So I stood there and begged him not to leave.

He remained remarkably still through it all, until my voice gave out, and I fell to stuttering mumbles. I thought I heard him murmur to himself. Then ever so slowly, he turned around. As he did my numb fingers lost their hold on the black fabric, and he was staring down at me, a head taller than me.

In his eyes was the oddest expression I had ever seen. His brows were cocked downward but he was not angry.

He stood there, less than a handspan from me, and said in a tired voice. "All right. I'll stay. I won't like it but I can't abide women crying."

At his words I raised a hand to my cheek to discover he was right. I had not even felt them.

" 'Sides, I don't have much choice." This was spoken much softer. When I looked inquisitively up at him, he seemed to realize that he had spoken out loud. "It was nothing. Nothing much anyway."

That had been enough of an answer for me, so I had nodded, in a numbly happy way. Somehow my agreement seemed to make his dark blue eyes grow sadder.

He stayed for a while, and I showed him the books on the shelves, though I admitted I did not know what many of them said. He didn't say much himself, but I was grateful for his company. When the light had begun to grow darker, a pale golden red, the shade of coming dusk, he announced he had better leave.

My fear returning I had asked him to come back, to return again. He had become quiet, then had given off a crooked sort of sigh, saying that of course he'd come back. So happy was I that my body seemed to react in some manner that I had forgotten it had ever known.

I hugged him. It was an awkward action but it was still a hug. The man seemed more put out about this then anything else I had done. Leaving in a hurry, his feet rushed him stiffly to the door. When he reached it, he called over his shoulder in a quiet voice as if he feared someone was listening. "My name's Wolfwood. Nicholas D. Wolfwood."

"My name is Ananaza." I answered, but he had already disappeared in through the large hole that had loomed in the metal for a brief span. I do not know if he heard, if Wolfwood heard.

I hope he comes back.


	5. Singing sea

**Disclaimer: I think people have the picture by now. I don't own Trigun, nor do I own the title of this chapter, which is basically the same as a Cowboy Bebop song title 'The Singing Sea'. The only things I own is the character, Ananaza, and the idea of Knives keeping her like this. Yep.**

**A/N: I actually wanted to write something more...substancial but this is what came out. Aaah, well. I'm not sure if the mood seems off or not...**

It has perhaps been longer than I should have left you alone, my silent companion. How long has it been? The moonlight has passed through its cycle at least two to three times. Perhaps that tells something, but I would not know.

I have been reading of the sea. It seems to be a common theme in these old books. Oddly, the longer I am here, the more the scribbles and lines on the old, curled papers begin to shape into words, forms I can recognize.

What the sea is, I could not say, but it sounds to be a bit like the air, cool and cleansing, but ever-changing in a constant rhythm, like the pattern of the moon. It shifts and changes; but is all-powerful. For everywhere that I read, the sea is called the "life-giving" place, like a long abandoned home, a warm, quiet place of deep contemplation. That is what it makes me think of anyway. A calm, shady place without sound or light, in a deep, deep space. I wish I could see this sea. I'm not sure why though, since I likely will not.

From what I remember before I came here, I do not believe there was ever anything quite like the sea.

In the books, the words say that the sea sings, humming in a gentle purr or a thundering roar. I can't understand that, unless it really is that changeable. It seems to be made of something more malleable than dirt but more visible than air. It's said to be a shifting rainbow of blues and greens, grays and whites, and all shades in-between.

I've found that since I have begun reading of it, that I heard it in my dreams, maybe even seen it. It always seems to be the same: a quiet darkness all around me. I am enclosed in a womb of silence and far off in the distance is an echoing sound, a plink of shadow rippling through the safe darkness. It is always faraway, like the hum of the wind I can sometimes hear, gentle but constant. As the nights passed on the dream seemed to continue, for instead of simply being a sound there was an aroma accompanying it, a scent that I had never tasted. Slightly bitter it was, but fresh with a tingly sensation in my dream-nose that made me sigh and inhale again.

Eventually the small, echoing sound grew into a distant rumble, hissing back and forth with a swift moan, as if it had begun to beat against itself, pounding hard against some unseen surface. There was a rhythm in the noise that would have lulled me into slumber if I had not already been dreaming. With it the scent increased as well, more potent, more brisk than before.

As the nights continued on, soon the darkness began to melt away. It was slow at first, like a dripping wall beginning to melt to reveal a new sight. Underneath the blackness was a deeper shade of blue. Even in my dreams, I was reminded of that stranger, Wolfwood he called himself, with those deep blue eyes.

The blueness seemed to grow over the nights as well, shifting in odd patterns, shaping in wavy, curly forms, as the sound grew clearer, a constant hiss and call like an old, old song. A rhythm soon emerged from the sound, as a breath being drawn into a deep, scratchy lung only to be released in a swift wheeze that hummed loudly. The scent had not changed.

Soon the blue took on a life of its own, other colors forming there; swirls of gray, lines of white, brighter sparks of blue. As the blue changed, so did the aroma accompanying it; it became even stronger, fresher and with it I could almost taste something on my lips. Almost salty, but not quite. The sound grew more constant, following the change in colors in the blue. It became a song to listen to, a melody to dance to, not just the breathing of a deep, deep place. It became something real, something alive.

Oh, but I don't really know what I am saying. Despite all this, it was still only a dream. And regardless of how much I might like for it to be the sea, the chances are slim that _I _would dream of it.

Sadly, the one point none of the books answer is what became of this sea. That is one piece of information I would like to know.

I'm sure it seems as if I have forgotten my earlier ill comfort. It is not that I am happy – I hardly believe I know what it means – it is merely I have no point in writing of those things. I cannot change where I am. I cannot change what is happening. There is little reason to try. So I spend my time reading and that is what I try and write of.

Of course, that does mean I have forgotten. Every night I think, or try to think of the things that are happening, but I find myself unbearably tired. It is as if all I have is the energy for is reading; it is the least tiring thing I can do. No matter what is happening, I can not seem to build up enough worry, enough sadness, enough of anything. I should be concerned, and as I write this I do feel a momentary pang of alarm but it is only a small pang.

Wolfwood did come again, if you'd liked to know, my quiet listener. He did not say much, as he had the first time, and I had begun to feel lethargic, as I am now, so that I did not speak much myself. But having the company was pleasant. It some ways, it was most pleasant of all _not _to have to speak. I did not have to explain myself, and I was not in any danger of my silence. Curiously, merely having him come was refreshing in it's own way, perhaps because I did not have to be afraid.

The long time without Knives maybe has done me good. Ah, how odd, that I can write _his _name without shuddering. Though there is a twinge in abdomen when I think of him.

Ah, yes, that reminds me. I now know that _he _was right—for some reason I cannot bring myself to call him by his name now—about the child. The area of my lower abdomen has grown until it has become a small bugle. It makes it difficult to write this, while another part of my mind can't help thinking there is something _odd _about this. But I can't place it.

Whatever it is, I am no longer in any doubt, not that I ever truly was. But it is one thing to be told you have a child, and another to know you have one.

I have been…thinking of that. I cannot fathom, nor should I, what Knives—what _he_—has in store. There is a strange tear in my normal fear and submission to him. I _know _he could kill me easily, throw me away as he likely will when he is done with whatever twisted plan he has, but somehow something inside me cannot easily give in. I have not been able to figure it out, only that I can feel this child in me, a pulsating rhythm that beats along with mine. There is pain of course, but…it is only small bouts, twinges really. Maybe they are heartbeats.

Aaah. I cannot let Knives take this child from me. Or at least, I cannot let him take me away from my child, because that one is _my child. _I am the child's mother, whatever _he _thinks of humanity. I won't let him take me away from my child.

I wonder if this feeling…I wonder if this is what it means…to be human? I wonder…


	6. Emerald cage

**Disclaimer: dido as before- I don't own Trigun**

**A/N: I had this written awhile back I just took a long time getting it up. I'm starting to have a vague idea of where this is going but it may be put off just a tad longer just for me to wait for the next Trigun volume to come out (manga wise)**

I have been moved. Though it is not as amazing at it sounds at first. There is little to tell of the matter; only that I was taken out of my cage and placed into another, blindfolded as I went, hands tied behind my back. Perhaps it sounds silly now, for a way for _him _to treat anything like me, but therein lies the reason I believe. Oddly, the thing that was the most unusual about the whole experience was that _he _did not come. He was not the one who moved me.

It makes me wonder who it was who brought me here in the first place. I wonder why I cannot remember…

Either way regardless, Knives did not come. Instead he sent Wolfwood, for surely anyone who is here, whether they wish it or not, are under Knives orders. That made it all seem that much more absurd.

Now as I write this, I am curious if you, my indisposed listener, wonder why it was I did not attempt escape. Nothing was tied tightly and Knives was not there. The absolute truth is that I did not think of it; how could I have? Ah, then why do I write of it, as if I have now thought of it? But that is another matter.

My new cage seems less like one than my previous one. It is open, very wide at the top. There is greenness everywhere, prickly but easily bent when I sit or lay in it, surrounded by tall dark shapes that bend over like hunched backs. They rise far over my head, and there are twelve in all, enclosing the large sward of greenness.

I have attempted to explore these odd dark spaces. I do not know why…perhaps because there was never much more to explore in the other room…

Hardly any of them go anywhere, leading only into hard, cold stone or steel of some kind. Though it is cold, it always feels smooth to my touch and slightly warm as if it is more than just metal. It is not uncomfortable, and I find myself uncommonly calmed by the touch of it.

Only one of them led to anywhere more. A small oval room, reminisce of the design of the previous rooms, only instead of bookshelves there is an expanse of green, and instead of a small, round room dripped in the colors of bloods this one is made of cool colors. The bed is smaller than the last one, more square than oval, stuck in the middle of the room. There are other odd objects as well. I cannot fathom what they are but I will try to describe them.

Along the far wall is a low shelf, completely white that stretches halfway across. Neatly arranged are many small round dots, like little circles. Some are larger than others, some are barely noticeable, while they all appear to be in a formatted order of long rows and smaller columns. They do not do much, are merely there. Mostly the circles are silver, a few are black and some are a yellow-ish white or red. I have stared at them for a long time and still do not understand.

Underneath where an even lower shelf lies, is a mismatch of objects I cannot even begin to understand. They appear mostly metal and are cold when I touch them. There is a soft blue blanket among the oddities. There are also boxes, tiny containers that have no labels and are too tight for me to open. (Imagine, I actually attempted to try and open one. Aah, things are certainly changing.)

And that is all there is.

I thought I would have been more upset about losing my books, but the atmosphere is entirely more pleasant than the last, peaceful and calming. I find I am not as sad or as worried as I once was, nor do I feel as tired. A vibrancy lives in this place, a kind of unheard humming of a powerful voice that fills the senses but leaves them surprisingly contented. If this is where I am to have my child, I am glad.

Oh, about the other matter I mentioned. I would never dream of escaping, for where would I go? No, as I have already said, I was not the one who thought of it. It was Wolfwood who first said it. I don't know why he did, but he asked me about it last night, the first question he had ever really spoken to me, maybe the first conversation he had ever started.

By then I had been here for almost a week, and I had not written in you since last time. The reason being, I had forgotten to bring you with me. It seems odd to tell a book that, but at least I can say it to someone. It seems that was why Wolfwood came. I do not know how he ever found it, or more importantly why he brought it. I can only image Knives allows it to amuse me. Or perhaps _he _does not even know I have it. But that makes the entirety of it even stranger.

Whatever the cause, Wolfwood brought you to me and I was delighted. I am…puzzled at my happiness at your return, if that's what it was. There are so many feelings I do not understand, many of them moving so irregularly, an inconstant swell that I can't quite ever grasp.

I remember in some far remote part of my mind, a gentle voice telling me about the changes that occur with babies. I don't now remember any those changes, but some part of me, some instinctive edge, cannot help but feel that there are changes happening but not the kind you would expect.

But I hardly know what I am speaking of.

Hmm.

There seems to be so little I do not understand. I wonder if I ever will? About all I can understand clearly, is that I am with child and I won't leave the child's side.

I feel as if I must speak of something, of some deep…thing…writhing inside me, a growing change. It's not the baby, it's something else…

There's something happening, something about this place – I just wish someone would tell me, but who would? I am not sure what to do…


End file.
